Dance of the Red Death
by MagicalJordini
Summary: E/C Oneshot. Leroux-based. Red Death comes to the masquerade, his cape bearing an explicit warning that he is not to be touched. But what happens when he offers his hand to a young soprano?


**A/N:**

Hi, there! This is my first PotO fic, and I have a few more one-shots in the making, so keep an eye out ;) This one is mostly Leroux-based, and was a lot of fun to write! Feel free to leave me a review, follow/favorite, etc. Enjoy :D

**Disclaimer:**

I do not own "Phantom" or any of its characters.

* * *

**Dance of the Red Death**

The party was abuzz with rumors and jokes about the mysterious masked 'Red Death', a seemingly-eccentric guest who had arrived at the ball. Everyone claimed to have seen the figure in this room or that room. One man even tried to touch the cape of the specter. Witnesses said his curiosity was met with the vice-like grip of a skeletal hand.

Apparently, he did not heed the warning on Death's scarlet cloak: "_Don't touch me! I am Red Death stalking abroad!_"

These murmurs and jests about a death's head whirled around a confused Christine. '_Surely he couldn't be here_?' she wondered.

It had been several months, and not a word from him. He no longer terrorized the opera, and those who did not know better thought he was gone for good. As for her, his prolonged silence gave a sense of relief and a strange anxiety. She was thankful for the months with Raoul and for the freedom she had without her constant demon. And yet, there was a part of her that felt like she was being watched. Perhaps it was just paranoia–she worried that the other shoe would drop, and she would be a prisoner again. Or maybe she knew he had not really left. As long as he was here, it was safe to assume that he would continue to watch over her. She longed for the time when his watchfulness was a comfort to her, not a threat.

Thinking about being watched made Christine's skin crawl. She looked around, searching for some sign of Raoul. He had told her to meet him in the main ballroom at midnight. It was now five minutes past, and he was nowhere to be seen. She was even wearing the black gown and mask he had insisted on. She searched through the dancing figures, trying to catch a glimpse of him. Perhaps the crowds had detained him? She cast another furtive glance around her, hoping for something, _anything_

Just then, the room quieted, and there was nervous shuffling as the crowd parted. Christine looked up, following the gaze of everyone else. _He_ was there, standing at the top of the grand staircase in full crimson splendor. All heads were turned in his direction, and the ballroom fell into a deep silence. Slowly, he made his way down the stairs, his movements deliberate and methodical.

A chill ran up the back of Christine's neck as she realized he had spotted her and was making his way towards her. Her reason told her she should flee, but she was rooted to the spot.

As he stepped onto the floor, his eyes locked with her's. She shivered, although, it wasn't entirely unpleasant. She felt that same magnetic pull to him, although this time, he wasn't enchanting her with his voice. Even after all this time, she was powerless in his wake. Something inside her stirred, and it was as if she no longer was afraid. Unconsciously surrendering, she began to move slowly to the center of the dance floor. The other dancers melted away until she could see no one else but him.

After what seemed like both an eternity and no time at all, the two of them were standing mask-to-mask in the middle of the room.

Christine looked deep into his glowing yellow eyes, and she felt her soul respond in the way that it did when he sang to her. The irresistible pull he had on her was as strong as ever. As nervous as she had been earlier in the evening, she now cherished the thought of having her angel back. The colorfully-robed man standing in front of her was not the horrible ghost, but her old friend and teacher. At least, he was her friend for the time being. She couldn't forget about his darker side, which could strike at any minute. But for now, he was simply Erik, and she felt at peace with that knowledge.

* * *

The next morning, all anyone could talk about was the strange visitor at the Bal Masque. No one knew who he was, nor why he had come. Some genuinely believed it was a visitor from beyond the grave. Whoever he was, he would not soon be forgotten. The mysterious vision in red was sure to haunt the memory of all who had seen him.

But what was strangest of all about this masked Death was the fact that no one could touch him. No one, that is, except for the young girl who danced with him. In the middle of the grand ballroom, Red Death had offered his hand to the soprano in a dress of midnight black, and together, they waltzed as if they were in a dream. The hall was silent, and the orchestra sat, awestruck, but the couple needed no music; the song of their souls accompanied the dance.


End file.
